Tart Cherries
by ABillion
Summary: Origins; one-shot. Victor and James eat cherries, drive a fast car, and talk about world events; what's left unsaid tells so much more.


"Tart." James mulled the cherry around in his mouth and spat the pit out the car's open window. It bounced away, left forgotten in the dust cloud the Hispano-Suiza kicked up.

"They're good for you." Without looking, Victor took one hand off the wheel and reached for one of the red gems; he tugged the stem off with his teeth and disposed of it in much the same manner.

The car was from a Chicago man who'd bought it before the crash and had to sell it to help pay for the house he'd also bought before the crash. James wasn't sure it was the best of investments, but it certainly was fast, and Victor knew he couldn't say no to fast. The cherry was from a roadside stand they'd just passed thirty miles out of Chicago. Without even being asked, Victor had stopped the car; James had grabbed one of the little baskets and left a dollar under the rest.

"A dollar?" Victor had grumbled, as he put the car in gear. "They ain't worth more'n a quarter."

"I don't got a quarter," James responded.

"'Don't got a quarter'?" Victor repeated, only half teasing. "Where'd you learn to talk like that?"

To avoid responding, James had popped a cherry in his mouth and remarked on the flavor.

It was 1933. "Alligator" Lacoste was selling his tennis whites in America, his symbol embroidered on the chest; unemployment in the U.S. was at 25%, but booze was legal again; and a little man named Adolf had been appointed Chancellor of Germany. Meanwhile, Victor and James were driving a used Hispano-Suiza from Chicago to Kansas City.

"So we in or out, Jimmy?"

James started at the miles and miles of burned-out farmland. It was hot; according to the radio, one of the hottest and driest summers in a long time, only compounding a difficult situation for farmers. "We're headin' to Missouri, aren't we?"

Victor sighed heavily; James could hear him grinding a cherry pit against his teeth. "You still ain't told me if we're _in _or _out_."

James finally glanced at him; he wore a white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up and black slacks, his coat having long been abandoned to the back seat. James had taken it one step further, now in only his undershirt. "Tell me about it again."

Victor spat the pit and reached for another cherry. "Frankie Nash done got himself arrested again." He heard James snort but ignored it. "Miller's gettin' some people together to bust him out... again."

"Remind me what he was in for."

"Assault," Victor grumbled, knowing what James's reaction would be. "Awwe, c'mon, Jimmy, it ain't like he killed the broad or nothin'." That probably didn't help. "Look: we do the job; we get _paid _- " he drew that word out - "and then we leave. Just one more job, Jimmy, it'll last us long enough."

James wasn't sure what it would last then long enough _until_; he had given up guessing. Was there ever 'enough'? "Then what?"

"Then we head down to Mexico and ride this thing out." By 'this thing' he meant the economy; by 'riding it out' he meant get in fights in cantinas until they found something better to do - which usually meant a war.

"Mexico's hot." James had gone back to staring out the window.

"So we'll go to Maine or something then. I don't care."

"Why don't we go back to Alberta?"

"Things aren't any better in Canada."

"Yeah, and they're a lot better in _Maine_." James could hear his teeth grinding again. "Why don't you want to go back to Canada?"

"We could go overseas," Victor mulled without answering the question.

"Mm." James let it drop. "When d'you think _that_ powder keg is going to blow again?"

Victor shrugged. "Dunno. Less'n a decade."

"We gonna get involved?"

The car jolted over a pothole and Victor cursed, plying the gearstick. When he had it under control, he responded, "_We_ as in, you and me, or _we_ as in, America?"

James knew the answer to the first one. It was yes; it was always going to _be _yes. When he was fighting, he felt like fighting was the best thing in the world; during peacetime, he wasn't so sure, but he always got pulled back in. Victor, meanwhile, _knew_ it was the best thing in the world and wouldn't listen to any arguments. "The states." He looked back to dig around for another cherry, and to watch his brother's reactions.

"Mm. Eventually, I'm sure; think it'll take some convincing, though, after the last one. _The war to end all wars._"

"Yeah, we've heard that one before." James twirled the cherry stem in his fingers. "So, what, you wanna start out in Europe?"

"Dunno. Will it be worth it? No one's got money to spend on an army."

"Britain, maybe."

"Little island's gonna get its ass whupped," Victor remarked. "Naw, I think Italy's gonna be where it's at."

"Not Germany?"

"Germany's not supposed to have an army, little brother."

James resented the term more the older they got; it wasn't as though the difference was severe enough to mean anything. It was piddling, if you looked at it percentage-wise, but Victor always acted like he was the wiser one. The irritating thing was, he was usually right - when his head was on straight. "That don't mean anything," he grumbled.

"No, it don't," Victor conceded, and they ate their cherries in silence for awhile. "We might as well just stay here," Victor said finally. "Figure out who's gonna win before we get into it."

"Still a ways off," James said.

"Yeah." Victor changed the topic. "You hear about Dillinger?"

"Why, what's he done now?"

"Got himself an apple for a girlfriend."

James surprised himself by laughing; it had been a long time since he'd heard the term _apple_ - red on the outside, white on the inside. You only heard it out of the mouths of those who considered red the better half of that equation, and it had been awhile since he and Victor had been anywhere that happened.

That's what they'd called so many of the little ones in Alberta. Was that why Victor didn't want to go back? The little ones with a white daddy and no one was quite sure who to blame...

"He better know what he's getting himself into," James said, and Victor hooted. They'd lived in Dog Head long enough to go from suspected to welcomed to suspected again; they certainly weren't red but they, too, were ignored and shuttled off by the white men. Besides, they spoke Cree fluently - it turned them into a trusted curiosity. Quite a few of their many, many, _many _years in Canada had been spent with the Indians.

Their laughter quieted, and Victor popped the question again. "So, Jimmy, we in or out?"

James sighed. "One job."

"One job."

"And then we're _done_, 'til..."

Victor shrugged. "'Til something happens."

"And we can go north again?" He avoided mentioning the province; hell, they could stay in Wisconsin for all he cared.

"Anywhere you want, Jim." Victor spoke eagerly; he wanted James to say yes. He was going to. Victor was always thinking of James first. Victor lined up the jobs; found the connections; made sure they had a place to sleep at night. He stopped for cherries on the roadside unasked because he knew James would want them. James, alternatively, made sure they could _stay_ in the same place for more than a day, without Victor ruining everything; he talked their employers into paying them even when Victor went a little overboard; he knew when they had to cut ties and start running. He let Victor buy an impractical car because he knew it would make him happy.

Victor needed James; James needed Victor. So what else could he do?

"Alright, we're in."

"That'a boy." Victor grinned, long canines showing, and teased the Hispano-Suiza up to 85.


End file.
